So old Gregory returned home--ate a hearty supper--drank a bottle of port--smoked two pipes of tobacco--and fell into a profound slumber--and awoke no more; and the farmers reside on their lands--and the mill stands upon the stream--and the villagers rejoice that Death did “business” with old Gregory. * * * * * THE BARBER. _For the Table Book._ Barbers are distinguished by peculiarities appertaining to no other class of men. They have a _caste_, and are a race of themselves. The members of this ancient and gentle profession--foul befall the libeller who shall designate it a _trade_--are mild, peaceable, cheerful, polite, and communicative. They mingle with no cabal, have no interest in factions, are “open to all parties, and influenced by none;” and they have a good, kind, or civil word for everybody. The cheerful morning salutation of one of these cleanly, respectable persons is a “handsell” for the pleasures of the day; serenity is in its tone, and comfort glances from its accompanying smile. Their small, cool, clean, and sparingly-furnished shops, with sanded floor and towelled walls, relieved by the white-painted, well-scoured shelves, scantily adorned with the various implements of their art, denote the snug system of economy which characterises the owners. Here, only, is the looking-glass not an emblem of vanity: it is placed to reflect, and not to flatter. You seat yourself in the lowly, antique chair, worn smooth by the backs of half a century of beard-owners, and instantly feel a full repose from fatigue of body and mind. You find yourself in attentive and gentle hands, and are persuaded that no man can be in collision with his shaver or hair-dresser. The very operation tends to set you on better terms with yourself: and your barber hath not in his constitution the slightest element of difference. The adjustment of a curl, the clipping of a lock, the trimming of a whisker, (that much-cherished and highly-valued adornment of the face,) are matters of paramount importance to both parties--threads of sympathy for the time, unbroken by the divesture of the thin, soft, ample mantle, that enveloped you in its snowy folds while under his care. Who can entertain ill-humour, much less vent his spleen, while wrapt in the symbolic vestment? The veriest churl is softened by the application of the warm emollient brush, and calmed into complacency by the light-handed hoverings of the comb and scissors. A smile, a compliment, a remark on the weather, a diffident, side-wind inquiry about politics, or the passing intelligence of the day, are tendered with that deference, which is the most grateful as well as the handsomest demonstration of politeness. Should you, on sitting down, half-blushingly request him to cut off “as large a lock as he can, merely,” you assure him, “that you may detect any future change in its colour,” how skilfully he extracts, from your rather thin head of